


Les Fleurs Du Mal

by Danaiye



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1850s, Angst, Drug Addiction, France Being France (Hetalia), French Revolution, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Mild Smut, Opium, Poetry, Short, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 20:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14221263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danaiye/pseuds/Danaiye
Summary: “Read a poem for me.” Arthur said as he lands lavish, resolute bites and kisses on Francis.





	Les Fleurs Du Mal

**Author's Note:**

> “When I see you pass by, my indolent darling,  
> I say within: “How fair she is! How strangely fresh !”  
> Are you the autumn fruit with sovereign taste? A funeral urn awaiting a few tears?  
> The perfume that makes one dream of distant oases? A caressive pillow, a basket of flowers?  
> I know that there are eyes, most melancholy ones, In which no precious secrets lie hidden;  
> Lovely cases without jewels, lockets without relics, Emptier and deeper than you are, O Heavens!  
> What matter your obtuseness or your indifference? Mask or ornament, hail! I adore your beauty.”  
> -Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs Du Mal  
> *Shortly after the Second Empire of France was overthrown in 1851, many French poets resorted to opium for inspiration.

Arthur came to visit.  
Francis raised his eyebrows at the English man’s dull clothing. The thick jacket covered his body entirely, including his neck that Francis has repeatedly kissed and caressed.  
Francis lets Arthur tug him up and kiss his mouth. His hands were slowly wrapping around Arthur’s waist.  
As a French man, Francis was not to be outdone. He deepened the kiss as he pushed Arthur to the wall.  
He grasped Arthur’s rump - although he once said he preferred Arthur over the exotic beauty of the Mediterranean, he now regrets his statement, for he can only feel that stupid thick cloak. He desperately wished for the season to get warmer.  
“You transport me out of all proper thought,” he murmured as Arthur unbuckles his belt. “Your beauty is real, but it tempts me to sin."  
“That is because you are a bloody opium addict,” Arthur responded. Francis notes the way his mischievous eyebrows raise when he says it, trying to interpret whether he is coquettish or sincere.  
Soon, Arthur is half-naked, while slight hints of perfume linger on his skin, like incense about a censer. To savour the scent, Francis presses his lips against Arthur’s skin and slowly traces down with the tip of his tongue, studying the details of Arthur’s body, ripe like a peach for a skillful lover.  
Arthur exhales hot air and pushes Francis onto the opium-tainted bed.  
“Read a poem for me,” Arthur said as he lands lavish, resolute bites and kisses on Francis.  
Francis looks at Arthur, and after a moment he recites his poem to Arthur, a poem inspired by a female actor while he was in Paris.  
Arthur presses against Francis, his movements embellished with a morbid charm.  
When he tells Francis about his departure tomorrow from Paris, Francis isn’t sad.  
Instead, he holds his English lover, as he loses himself to his opium-induced dreams.


End file.
